Adventure, July 1, 1928 — page 50: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

44 W. C. TUTTLE glowed with a yellow light, which would not last long. Twilight was unknown in Mojave Wells. Sundown, a streak of gold, would quickly fade to blue, and then darkness. Bud Hickman came from the Desert Well and went straight to the hitch rack, where he untied his horse and swung into the saddle. Simultaneously with Bud’s move, Pete Asher came riding from the rack beside the Prospect. It was not a casual move. They intended to deceive nobody, not even the sheriff of Mojave Wells. The cowboys of both outfits were in the street, watching intently. Bud came straight to the sheriff, and fifty feet behind him was Pete. Bud’s face was grim, his mouth set in a thin line. “Y’m pullin’ out, Buck,” he said softly. “Would you mind handin’ me my gun?” The sheriff stopped whittling, tilted forward in his chair and got slowly to his feet. He looked closely at Bud, but said nothing, as he turned and went into the office. Pete moved in closer, but he and Bud ignored each other. Ben sighed and Jeaned against the wall. The sheriff came out, carrying a gun in each hand. For several moments he looked at the two men rather sorrowfully. “I reckon you're pullin’ out, too, ain’tcha, Pete?” Pete nodded quickly. and held out his hand for the gun. They had been friends, these two, until 2 woman had come be- tween them. Bud holstered his gun, swung his horse around and rode slowly down the street, looking straight ahead. Pete accepted his gun, glanced at it to see that it was fully loaded, snapped it down in his holster and swung his horse around, riding back to the center of the street. Ben swore softly under his breath. Both of these men were good revolver shots. “Goin’ to be a funeral around here —mebbe two,” he muttered. ‘Why don’tcha stop it, Buck? Gawd A’mighty, this ain’t right! Look at Bud—he’s ou 9.439 ! turnin ’ Two hundred feet is a long shot. “You didn’t expect he’d run away, didja?” The contestants in this desert town drama were two hundred feet apart, facing each other, both horses moving slowly. They had both played a square game. There was no advantage now. Both men had drawn their guns. Bud’s horse was dancing a little, and he spurred it viciously. Pete waited. Ben’s hands were gripping the wall beside him. He had seen gun fights before, but they had all been unpre- meditated affairs. This one was too much like an execution. The groups of cowboys were as immobile as dummy figures. Even the horses at. the hitch racks had ceased moving. Bud and Pete were closing the. gap between them, closing it slowly, each waiting for the other to make the first move with a gun. They were only a hundred feet apart now. It was close enough. But neither of them made a move to lift his gun. Ninety feet; thirty yards. Either of them could hit a tomato can at that dis- tance. Eighty feet! Horses walking slowly. Seventy feet; sixty feet. Twenty yards now. They were almost in front of the sheriff’s office. Ben laughed fool- ishly. It would be a double funeral. He had seen Bud shoot the head from a prairie dog at that distance. “It’s a nice evenin’ for it,” said the sheriff rather inanely. And then it happened! OTH guns came up at exactly the same instant. Ben’s eyes snapped shut and he turned his head aside. Came a tiny ping, hardly louder than the mere snapping of a revolver hammer. Another and another. Bud’s eyes jerked open. The two riders were thirty feet apart, leaning forward in their saddles. Not a shot had been fired. With a swift movement, Bud Hickman swung out the cylinder of his Colt and emptied the cartridges in his hand. Every comnlicloooks.com